The Dragon
by Asmodeus1389
Summary: The silver dragon perched on the cliff, and the strangers scurried below.


The dragon peered at the rocky beach, blinking once or twice. In a sleek movement, it flared its wings and launched itself from the sheer cliff face it had been perched on. It drifted over the activity on the beach below. As its shadow darkened the scurrying creatures, they froze, looking up at the silver behemoth that soared lightly on the breezes. In a second, the figures on the beach gathered weapons, and, as the giant lizard swept around again, hurled them at the belly of the beast.

The spears fell short, but an arrow or two glanced off the armored scales that sparkled in the sunlight. The silver dragon snorted in distaste – it had been a long time since anything had challenged the dragon's power. He wheeled again, eyes absorbing the details of the chaos before him.

They were two legged, like the dwarves of the southern reaches, but instead of thick, curly fur and short, stout bodies, these creature had long black manes and tall and bendy bodies. Most of them seemed to be concentrating on some sort of hollow whale. The silver had dealt with whales before, of course, although he was not yet large enough to hunt them; he had feasted on dead or beached ones, and had found them to be quite satisfactory. This beached whale, however, didn't look like any from his experience. For one thing, it was brown, a most peculiar color for anything from the sea. It's back sported several trees, each with fruits that hung parallel to the branches. The two-leggeds were crawling over, and yes, the silver could see, in and out of it.

In any case, he had no desire for food that was continually disgorging other food. One of his nest mates, the red who moved farther up the coast, had at one eaten something with white flecks in it, and had sorely regretted it for days after. The silver had no desire to share in the red's experience, and with things much bigger than white flecks. It was far too early to be flying, anyway. So he returned to his cliff and waited and watched.

As the sun reached its height in the sky, the silver flicked his wings experimentally, and then soared off the edge of the cliff face. He plummeted, the rocky shore racing towards him with alarming alacrity; then, one, two, strokes of the massive wings and he was horizontal, rising, over the sea.

The two-leggeds were still by their brown whale, though as the dragon swooped low, he decided it was made more of wood than of meat. Oh well. It was the two-leggeds' loss, not his. As the silver's winds blew cyclones over the two-leggeds, they pointed, screamed and launched their bits of wood and stone at him. The silver let loose a shriek of laughter. All the weapons fell short of their intended target for the second time, and the silver flew on unhindered.

The silver returned to his perch later that afternoon, just as the yellow disk was touching the sea. He had hunted well, despite the noisy two-leggeds running through the forest after deer. It had been an interesting day for the silver – one he would never forget, in fact. His pale eyes watched the sun. Sleep time. But not tonight. Folding his wings against the chilly sea winds, the silver blew a jet of flame onto the rocks nearest the top of the cliff. They glowed a steady red, an ominous beacon in the night.

That night, the silver sang.

The two-leggeds on the beach heard it and started upwards in fear and wonder. They clutched their few younglings closer to themselves, not knowing if the low, mournful tunes were hunting calls or death cries.

The deer in the forest heard it. The creature of the untamed forest which stretched for acre of upon acres before tapering into the grasslands farther east paused for a moment, then continued about their business. Dragon-songs meant nothing to them. The wiser of their kinds knew it had meant something once, but now there was no reason. They all knew that they could only hear dragons when the lizards let them.

A small party of dwarves heard the song. They had wandered far from their mountains, seeking glory and gold, and they heard the song of the silver. They paused, listening to the changes in pitch. If only they could cast the song into gold, one of them muttered, then we could be rich.

The dragons heard the song. It rolled across the land, sometimes in pitches too low to hear, other times too high. The red to the north heard it, and she lit her own beacon of rocks. The green to the south heard it, and he began to twitch his tail in time. Then the wind hit him head on, and he scented a peculiar scent. His expression twisted as he tried to gather more of it. Ah, yes. He _had_ smelled it before – only once – after killing a rival for a mate. He had scented the smell grotesque odor as he perched on the back of the dead black. It was the smell of death. The green nuzzled his white mate awake. She smelled it too.

The song vibrated through the forest, playing the trees as a hand would a lute, and rolled across the plains like a summer storm. Until it hit the desert, at which point it exploded.

An old orange dragon lifted his head. Night had come earlier in the desert, and he snorted a flame of disgust at being awoken. He swung his head side to side, dislodging sand that a recent storm had deposited. With the origin of the song pinned, the orange patriarch stretched his wings, and then took flight. He was a wind lord, and regardless of the still night air that made it a pain to fly, the orange would be at the coast by noon the next day.

The silver twisted his neck as he heard the orange come near. His head upside, he watched through impassive eyes are the orange coasted to the cliff and landed neatly on a jutting strip of rock. The orange's pale eyes gazed at the scene of bedlam in front of him. Dwellings had been erected on the beach and the arrival of daylight had sent the two-leggeds scouring across their wooden whale again.

The silver slithered alongside the orange. _What are they?_ he asked inquisitively. The orange exhaled heavily, shooting sparks down the side of the sheer cliff face. _They are new._

The orange paused; then continued. _They are not as short as the dwarf folk, nor as faded as the grey. Their skins are so pale. _

_We shall call them the fair. _


End file.
